


White Cedar

by ShortForPhill



Series: Autoclave [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Experimentation, Extremis, Gen, Kidnapping, Mad Science, Magic, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortForPhill/pseuds/ShortForPhill
Summary: "Woke up on lockdown one more timeMy visions won't ever learnBut I see the light that much clearerEvery time I return"-White Cedar, The Mountain GoatsTony Stark returns from Afghanistan with a hole in his chest and a new vision for the future.It's a real shame Obadiah Stane has other plans in mind.But Tony isn't alone, and he's determined to leave no man behind this time around.(the Iron Man 1 redux nobody asked for)





	1. The Confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> In which I tackle the MCU, throw in a god for fun, and maybe break the universe

Tony Stark returns from Afghanistan with a hole in his chest and a new vision for the future. Should he have consulted literally anybody before deciding to shut down weapons manufacturing? Yeah, probably. But he can’t shake the sense of urgency that’s gripped him ever since he got back to the States. Tony thought the Board would be happy with his newfound sense of responsibility. Instead they go ahead and file an injunction against him. Apparently they’d prefer he went back to business as usual. So Tony does what he does best: he bottles everything up, puts on a suit, and shows up at the next gala like everything is fine. Because Stark men are made of iron.

Everything is fine. Until it’s not. As Tony waits by the bar, he’s confronted by the reporter, Christine Everhart.  
“What do you have to say about this latest atrocity?” she demands.  
“Look, they just invite me, and I show up,” Tony gestures to the party around him. Why can’t she just leave him alone? It’s like she’s made it her personal mission to rub every single one of his many sins in his face.  
“I’m talking about what happened to Gulmira.” He accepts the folder of photographs from her, dreading what he’s about to see. He recognizes the terrorist group that had held him hostage. The photos show them clearly carrying crates of Stark weapons. Suddenly, this is the only thing that matters. Not pretending to be back to normal. Not Pepper waiting for him upstairs. This is his mission.  
“When were these taken?”  
“Yesterday.”  
“I didn’t approve this.”  
“Well your company did.”  
“I’m not my company.” She doesn’t believe him. Why should she? The public doesn’t know his Board has turned against him. It’s still his name on the company. It’s still his name on the weapons. It’s still his mess to clean up.

Tony confronts Obadiah Stane on the steps of the gala. It’s one thing to discover that his company has been dirty dealing under his nose for years. That hurts. Tony can’t believe he was stupid enough to think that there were lines his company wouldn’t cross. But then Stane reveals that he’s the one that filed the injunction. That betrayal cuts deeper than anything his company has done. He stands frozen as he processes the information.  
“You locked me out of my own company?” he hisses as he hurries down the stairs after Stane. “I trusted you.”  
“Come on, Tony,” Stane says, his perfect paparazzi smile still in place. “Do you really want to make a scene here?” He grips Tony’s shoulder hard enough to bruise and tugs him in for another photo. Tony shrugs out of his grasp as they reach the waiting car.  
“You seem to have no trouble making a scene with my weapons in Afghanistan.”  
“Let’s not do this here.”  
“Why not? So you can come to my house and lie to my face again?”  
“Tony …” Stane’s smiles slips away.  
“What else are you hiding from me?” Stane slaps him across the face. His expression immediately softens, but the damage is done.  
“This is for your own good, Tony. You’re not in your right mind.” With those words, Stane is gone, and Tony is more alone than ever.

At home, in the privacy of his workshop, Tony screams. His attempts to make everything right after Afghanistan have only made things worse, it seems. If nobody will stand with him, then he’ll just have to go it alone. He starts working on updated blueprints for the armor. It wasn’t supposed to be a weapon. But if that’s what it takes to destroy every last piece of Stark technology that’s fallen into the wrong hands, then so be it.  
“Sir, Mr Stane is requesting entry,” JARVIS alerts him.  
“Lock everything down. Nobody gets in here but me. Run the specs for the new suit while I’m gone.”  
“Yes sir.”

Tony pulls a dark t-shirt on as he exits the workshop. He’s not keen on the arc reactor being so visible through his tank top. Stane doesn’t deserve that level of trust anymore.  
“What do you want?” he asks as he reaches the top of the stairs.  
“I just want to talk about what happened,” Stane spreads his hands in an appeasing gesture. “I’m worried about you, Tony.”  
“You hit me,” Tony reminds him. “In public.” Howard Stark may have been a terrible father, but at least he kept that kind of shit private.  
“You’re unstable, Tony. I think you need help.”  
“I’m not crazy.” Tony paces around the room, keeping Stane in his line of sight. He might not be afraid, but he’s not stupid.  
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that maybe you need to take some time off, step aside for a bit.”  
“I already had my vacation, Obie. Three months, someplace warm.”  
“Tony,” Stane sighs. “I need you to get with the program here.”  
“Which program is that? The one where you sell weapons to terrorists?”  
“Don’t be naive, Tony. Your father never let convention get in the way of progress.”  
“I don’t care if my dad licked Hitler’s asscheek to get what he wanted. We’ll burn it down and start over if we have to. I won’t have any more blood on my hands.”  
“We’re on the edge of greatness here, Tony. I won’t let you destroy that opportunity.”  
“What are you gonna do, Obie? Kill me?” Stane chuckles and Tony feels the world fall away beneath his feet. “Are you here to kill me?”  
“You know, when I paid to have you killed, I thought you had nothing left to offer after the Jericho. But you proved me wrong.” Afghanistan was Stane’s doing. The man just confessed. Tony knows he should probably call the police or the FBI or something.  
“JARVIS-” he utters.  
“Override code 4936,” Stane interrupts. JARVIS shuts down. Stane takes a step forward. Tony takes a step back.  
Stane backs Tony against the large window, hands on either side of Tony’s head. He’s not that much taller than Tony, but the difference suddenly seems astronomical. Tony glances behind him at the water below. He imagines the glass disappearing, and himself toppling backwards into the sea. The new arc reactor is waterproof, so at least that won’t be the thing that kills him.  
A hand on his shoulder draws him out of his dark thoughts and into a darker reality.  
“Don’t make this difficult, Tony,” Stane says.  
“Just get it over with,” Tony growls. So much for not wasting his second chance. He can pay for his sins in hell. Stane jams a needle into his neck and the world goes dark.

Waking up in the trunk of a car right beside somebody's smelly gym bag is not an ideal situation. Especially when that gym bag belongs to your trusted business partner and father-figure, who has just betrayed you again after plotting your death at the hands of terrorists. Tony fumbles around in the dark for the trunk release, the faint blue of the arc reactor hidden by his shirt. He finds the lever and tugs, popping the trunk open.  
They're speeding down a dark highway through a desert. Shit, how long was he out? Doesn't matter. He launches himself out of the trunk, bouncing at least twice on the pavement before rolling off the road. Tony immediately has many regrets, but there really isn't time. The car is already slamming on the brakes. He drags himself off the ground and starts running. He could really use his suit of armor right now. That's an idea - make armor that could remote-control to his location. That's a problem for future Tony. Currently, he’s running for his life. He stumbles, swearing as his ankle twists in a pothole. Tony briefly entertains the notion that this is horror movie levels of ridiculous as he continues to lurch forward as fast as his legs will carry him. Stane has turned the car around and is toodling along beside him, just rubbing it in at this point.  
“Come on, Tony. You can’t run forever,” he calls from the comfort of his sensible 4-door sedan. First Afghanistan, and now this. Tony adds “vehicular manslaughter at 5 miles per hour” to the List of Ironic Ways for Tony Stark to Die, right beneath “getting blown up by your own weapons”.  
“Fuck off,” Tony responds. When did it get so hard to breathe? His chest burns with the strain on his squished lungs, and also probably road rash.  
“Get in the car, Tony. You don’t even know where you are.”  
“Make me.” Tony knows he’s just delaying the inevitable at this point. If he wants to lose the car, he has to leave the road, and any sense of direction along with it. He just wants to know if he’s still in California. Stane gives an exaggerated sigh and stops the car. He steps out of the car and makes his way towards Tony, clearly not in any hurry. The keys are still in the ignition.  
Tony makes a break for the car, ignoring the pain in his ankle during his mad dash. Stane intercepts him and slams him against the side of the vehicle, one hand on his throat, the other pressing down on his chest, right where the arc reactor sits. It hurts more than Tony expected, having the casing for his arc reactor intentionally shoved back into all the squishy parts inside.  
“Fuck you,” he grits out, determined not to show weakness. He tries to knee Stane in the balls, but Stane blocks him easily.  
“Is that really how you want to do this?” Tony replies with the rudest thing he can think of. He isn't really surprised when Stane punches him in the face. Repeatedly.


	2. Science and Faith

Tony wakes up in a small cell. At least it's not a cave. A reinforced metal door bars his escape. A toilet and sink on one wall, and a cot on the other. To his surprise, the cot is already occupied. A young man sprawls across the mattress, a tangle of dark hair obscuring part of his face, and dark bruises mapped out across his tan skin.  
"Jesus, you're just a kid," Tony mutters. The young man stirs, one eye opening just a crack.  
"You are awake," he says softly, voice thick with an accent that Tony can't quite place at the moment.  
"Yeah. How long was I out?"  
"Not long. Maybe few hours? Time is strange in here." Tony nods, understanding.  
"I'm Tony."  
"Ishmael. ... You're glowing."  
"Oh. Yeah." Tony taps at the arc reactor through his shirt. "It’s a long story." Ishmael sits up, eyes glued to the reactor. One eye is as blue as the reactor itself, the other an equally electric green. He reaches a hand out and Tony instinctively grabs his wrist.  
"Ah. Sorry," Ishmael withdraws. He taps his own chest. "Is the same." Tony notices the start of a long vertical scar, like the kind left behind by open-heart surgery.  
"Who broke your heart?" he quips. Ishmael's lips twitch into a smile. It's a sad sort of thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes.  
"Who broke your nose?"  
"Is it really broken?" Tony instantly reaches for his nose. It doesn't hurt any more than getting punched in the face usually does, but there is blood.  
"Let me see." Ishmael reaches forward and touches the tip of Tony's nose. Ishmael's green eye lights up as Tony feels the cartilage in his nose grind back into place.  
"Ow!"  
"Shit!"  
"Fuck!"  
"Еб!"  
"What?"  
"Sorry!"  
"Why are you apologizing? You just fixed my nose."  
"I should have asked first."  
"It's fine. So you've got magic powers? No big deal."  
"Not a fan of magic?"  
"There's gotta be an explanation."  
"I have been a mad science project before," Ishmael shrugs, like that’s not a crazy bonkers thing to say.  
"So what else can you do?"  
"I can read memories."  
"You can read minds?"  
"Memories. Like watching a movie. I can see what they saw."  
"So you know everything about me?"  
"I don't look without permission."  
"But?"  
"You are famous, Tony Stark. Your past is well documented." Little shit. Tony likes him already.  
"Those stories aren't all true, you know."  
"I know."

Any further conversation is cut off by the sound of approaching footsteps. Both Tony and Ishmael tense up as the cell door swings open. Stane stands in the doorway, accompanied by the two most generic henchmen Tony has ever seen.  
“Is it torture time already?” Tony asks, mouth moving faster than his brain. “I haven’t had my beauty sleep.”  
“We’re just going to go for a little walk,” Stane answers. “The exercise will do you good, Tony.”  
“I seriously doubt that,” Tony retorts. He starts to stand up anyway, figuring it’s better than being manhandled by Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. His twisted ankle protests the movement with a flash of pain. The goon squad doesn’t seem to notice, but Ishmael offers his hand. Tony accepts it, leaning on the younger man for support. He’s always been a firm believer that you’re only as old as you feel. Right now he feels every single one of his forty years.  
“Think of this like a field trip,” Stane says. “Stick with your buddy and don’t touch anything without permission.” He looks pointedly at Ishmael for that last bit.

Stane leads the way down a series of hallways. Given the lack of windows, Tony guesses they must be in some sort of underground bunker. That doesn’t do him any good in figuring out where he is. He tries putting a bit of weight on his ankle and instantly regrets it. Ishmael doesn’t comment, just continues to support him. He’s surprisingly sturdy, despite his small frame. His bare feet make almost no sound across the concrete floor, compared to the dull thud of Tony’s work boots.  
The sad little parade finally reaches their destination. Tony immediately recognizes it as a laboratory. A really shitty lab. A few forgettable faces mill about, taking notes and, in one corner, trying to clean what looks like spoiled meat off the wall and floor.

Aldrich Killian is the resident mad scientist, with a heavy dose of mad and not so much science. He’s a jittery, nervous man, babbling about formulas and theorems so fast that even Tony has a hard time following his train of thought. He’s eager to meet Tony.  
“We’ve met before, Mr Stark. I was still working with AIM then, but Mr Stane offered me a job…” He keeps talking, but Tony stops listening. AIM? Advanced Idea Mechanics was some sort of hippy science collective. They occasionally submitted proposals to Stark Industries, but usually got rejected for being a waste of resources.  
“...So anyways, that’s part of why we’ve developed Extremis.” Hold the phone. Extremis? Why does that sound like one of Tony’s cartoonishly bad ideas developed during a night of hard partying?  
“Where are we on the latest batch?” Stane asks. Right. Stane is here.  
“Much more stable,” Killian says. “The host still has to be compatible for it to work.” That sounds awful. Tony starts to look through Killian’s notes. Seeing as nobody tries to stop him, he figures it’s allowed.  
Extremis is a virus. Or at least in theory it works the same way a virus does. The trouble is getting it to work on a person. If successful, it should result in superhuman strength and agility, and-  
“You’re making super soldiers?” Tony says out loud. He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Are you insane? Nobody has replicated the process. Nobody! The best you’re gonna get is some kind of abomination.”  
“You could make it work,” Stane suggests.  
“No.”  
“What happens when it does not work?” Ishmael speaks for the first time in what feels like forever. The way he asks suggests he already knows the answer.  
“Ah, well, you see,” Killian explains, fidgeting, “They overheat rapidly until external combustion occurs.”  
“Use small words,” Stane sneers. “He’s not from around here.”  
“I know what it means to explode,” Ishmael snaps. Tony feels Ishmael tense up beside him. The younger man is practically vibrating with anger. “How many did you murder?” he demands.  
“All of our volunteers knew the risks-” Killian sputters. Ishmael punches him. It happens so quickly that Tony barely registers Ishmael’s absence before the henchman are holding him back.  
“Get him out of here,” Stane says dismissively, “You know the drill.” He waves Killian away as well, even as the man keeps whining about calculated risks and signed waivers.  
“How many?” Tony asks. He suspects Ishmael already knows.  
“Ten human trials so far,” Stane answers.  
“And that’s just fine with you?”  
“Collateral damage, Tony. You have to get used to it if you want to get ahead.”  
“I think you’re comfortable enough with it for the both of us.”


	3. Cell Block Tango

Stane re-summons his henchmen to take Tony back to the cell, and Tony pretends not to notice the blood on their knuckles. He talks the whole way back, needling the goons about everything he can think of, knowing Stane has likely instructed them not to hurt him. He tries not to think about what that might mean for Ishmael. This isn’t like it was with Yinsen.

Tony is grateful to find Ishmael still standing when he reenters the cell. The younger man is leaning against the sink, facing the wall. He’s staring at the place where a mirror should be, both hands gripping the edge. Tony parks himself on the cot, happy to give his ankle a rest.  
“What happened to the mirror?” Tony asks, noticing for the first time that there definitely used to be one there.  
“I broke it my first day here,” Ishmael answers, turning to face him, revealing a black eye and a split lip. “Tried to kill someone with the glass.” He grins briefly, but it’s all teeth and all wrong.  
“Oh. Are you ok?”  
“Just a few new bruises,” he shrugs. “That’s easy to fix.” Right. Magic. “I will fix your ankle, but you need to hide that from Stane.”  
“Makes sense.” Tony scoots over as Ishmael joins him on the cot.  
“If they think we are weak, they will not expect us to escape,” Ishmael says as he heals Tony’s ankle. As before, his green eye glows as the magic does it’s work.   
“Do you know a way out of here?”  
“Yes. But I need help. I need a mechanic.”  
“Then I guess it’s your lucky day.” Ishmael smiles, his real smile this time, the one that holds too much sadness for someone that young. Tony thinks about Yinsen. He pushes that thought away.  
“Planning will take time,” Ishmael says. “It will not hurt to rest.” Tony glances at the cot. It’s small, but they might be able to make it work.  
“We can share,” he insists. “If not, I’ll take the floor.”  
“We can share,” Ishmael agrees, tone implying that he is not about to let Tony take the floor. Tony appreciates his determination.  
“Big spoon or little spoon?” Ishmael looks at Tony like he has five heads. “I mean, which side of the bed do you want?”  
“Oh. Uh, the wall, I guess.”  
“Wall it is.” Tony gestures for Ishmael to go ahead. “Get comfy. I promise not to snore.” It takes them a few minutes to get settled, before both men are satisfied. Ishmael is asleep in seconds, presumably dreaming peacefully. Tony just stares at the ceiling and waits for sleep to come.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Ishmael starts to toss and turn, arms flailing. He sends both himself and Tony crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.  
“Ish, buddy, it’s just a dream!” Tony tries to shake him awake. Bad idea. Ishmael’s eyes snap open, but he’s clearly not present. His green eye glows eerily in the dark.  
“I could end this world with a single word, you honey-eyed fuck,” he hisses. Green light spreads down the length of his arm towards his fingertips as he raises it in the air.  
“Ish, no, it’s me, Tony!” The hand comes down, open palm striking him square in the chest. Tony wheezes, the casing for the arc reactor digging into his lungs. That seems to stop Ishmael. The light from his green eye fades as he blinks in confusion.  
“Do you remember me?” Tony whispers.  
“Remember…” Ishmael repeats, still not all there. The light from his hand turns blue, and his blue eye suddenly lights up. He recoils, and Tony feels a faint buzzing in the back of his mind. A thin wisp of light still connects Ishmael to Tony as the younger man tries to break the connection. The light snaps, like a cut string, and Ishmael falls back, gasping. The light trailing down his arm recedes, but his eye still glows.  
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he whispers.  
“Ishmael,” Tony approaches as slowly as possible. “Ishmael it's ok. Just tell me what happened.”  
“I remembered you,” Ishmael tries to explain, “I started to fall into your memories.”  
“You were in my brain?”  
“I didn't mean to-”  
“Shhh, it's ok. I'm not mad. You were obviously having a nightmare.” Shit. He is not good at this whole feelings thing.   
“Sometimes, I lose control,” Ishmael admits. “I forget where I am.”  
“Who did you think I was?”  
“Someone with powers like me,” Ishmael says carefully, “A rival.” His hand traces the scar on his chest. “His eyes were gold.”  
“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I bet you’ll have one heck of a story to tell one day.” That gets a small smile from Ishmael, so Tony considers it a success.  
“I suppose I will.” The younger man points to the cot. “Your turn to be little spoon.”  
“That’s probably a good idea.”

Morning comes - or at least Tony can only assume it’s morning - with a loud banging on the cell door. Ishmael peels himself away from where he ended up wrapped around Tony and drags himself to the door. He answers the banging with a knock of his own.  
“To confirm we are still here,” Ishmael explains. “They check every morning.”  
“What if you can’t answer?” Tony asks, sitting up. His body reminds him that he is not in his twenties anymore. Ishmael politely ignores the old man sounds his body makes.   
“They open the door, ready to shoot you if you try anything.”  
“Fun.”  
“Food is once per day, another way to check us. Otherwise we only come out when they need us. Not so often for me. I’m guessing more often for you. The only long time with no interruptions is night.”  
“How do you propose we get past the door?”  
“All it takes is for someone to forget to lock it.” He adds, “I can help with that.”  
“You’re real scary sometimes. I appreciate that.”  
“And I appreciate your lack of tact. You have no future as a diplomat.” Ishmael is humorous, in his own weird way. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.  
“Hey, Ish, where’s home for you?” Ishmael blinks at the nickname at first, then shrugs as if to accept it.  
“I came here from Russia,” he says, not really answering the question. Tony lets it slide.   
“What city?”  
“Moscow,” Ishmael humors him. “Before that, a village with no name in Chechnya.”  
“I’m from New York,” Tony offers. “But I guess you knew that.”  
“It’s a good city for heroes,” Ishmael chooses not to respond to the second remark.  
“Yeah, well, I’m not a hero.”  
“Just a good man.” Tony startles at those words. He recognizes that phrase, something people used to say about- “You are interesting, Tony,” Ishmael interrupts that thought.  
“Yeah, everybody wants to know what makes Tony Stark tick.”  
“You are interesting, Tony,” Ishmael repeats. “Stark or not.” He sits on the floor and lays down with his arms spread out to the sides, staring at the ceiling. “Have you tried meditation before?” It’s a non sequitur. In a way, so is Ishmael. Something about him just doesn’t fit.  
“What, like yoga to cure what ails me?”  
“No. Just contemplative silence.”  
“Pepper calls it brooding.”  
“My mother used to say the same thing. He was a complicated man.” Tony digests that sentence, the words too deliberate to be a translation error. Despite his evasiveness in some regards, Ishmael is very candid in others.  
“Sounds like you have a complicated family.”  
“Like one of your television dramas. Everyone is related and nobody is really dead.”  
“Oh? Who’s pretending to be dead this time?”  
“Me.” What the hell does anyone say to that? Silence falls, an ugly silence. It’s full of doubt and distrust and things left unsaid. Things off-limits.

“Next time, try a private island. Much better than an illegal science bunker.” Ishmael rolls his head to the side to look at Tony.  
“You have one of those, don’t you?” he asks.  
“I mean, probably. Yeah,” Tony admits. Ishmael’s smile spreads, slow and crooked.  
“When we get out, we have earned a vacation. Is it tropical?”  
“The best ones are.”  
“What would we call it? Paradise?”  
“Avalon.” Tony has a name ready before he even processes what comes out of his mouth. Ishmael’s smile widens.  
“Where kings go to retire.” Tony is surprised the young man gets the reference. He smiles in return.  
“I might let wizards come too.”  
“I am not a wizard.”  
“Fine. You can be the Lady of the Lake.”  
“I always did look good in blue and green.” Silence falls again, this time softer and full of better thoughts. Ishmael looks so tired, not just physically. No one that young should be that tired. His smile fades back to just a hint as he turns his head away.  
“It’s ok, you know,” he says, talking as though to someone lying beside him, “To stop. To rest sometimes.”  
“The world doesn’t stop just because I do.”  
“That’s a big decision to make.”  
“To keep going?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well, we have work to do.”  
“We?”  
“I’m not leaving anyone behind. Not again.”


	4. Run Through the Jungle

As predicted, Stane has Tony pulled from the cell for an attempted heart to heart. Two faceless goons come to drag him to Stane’s office, leaving Ishmael behind to wait and wonder. Tony tries to memorize the steps, careful to note the signs indicating evacuation routes. If Tony had to guess, he’d say this bunker was built during the Cold War, possibly for weapons testing.  
Stane’s office is surprisingly plush. Nothing but the best for the boss, Tony supposes. Now aware of the depth of Stane’s betrayal, he starts to see each calculated phrase and movement for the manipulation that it is.  
“Tony, have a seat,” Stane gestures towards a reasonably comfortable looking chair. Like there’s an option. Tony plops down, having convincingly limped forward. He’s faked not being injured often enough; doing the opposite isn’t that difficult.  
“What do you want?” he asks.  
“Come on, Tony. Let’s talk this out.” Stane sits on the edge of his desk, projecting that “cool uncle” vibe he always tries to go for.  
“What exactly are we supposed to talk about?” Tony leans back in the chair. Once he might’ve been displeased with the way he sinks into it, but now he’s grateful for the distance between himself and Stane.  
“You have to understand, Tony. This isn’t personal.”  
“It sure feels personal.”  
“This is about the company, and bringing it into a new era. We’re on the cutting edge of something great.”  
“You mean Extremis.”  
“Yes.”  
“No. Go fuck yourself.”  
“Tony,” Stane frowns disapprovingly, like he’s lecturing Tony about a board meeting. Christ, what an asshole.  
“I said no.” Tony leans forward. He regrets every inch closer this brings him to Stane, but he’s not about to back down now. Stane stands up and claps him on the shoulder.  
“It’s time to stop being so selfish, Tony. Think where we’d be if your father hadn’t helped create the atomic bomb.” Tony digs his fingers into the arms of the chair as Stane looms over him. He is not weak. Stane’s hand lingers on his shoulder, heavy with the weight of taking a broken boy and turning him into a weapon.  
“I think I can afford to be a little selfish,” Tony quips. Stane chuckles and pats his cheek with just a little more force than necessary.  
“You’ll see sense soon enough, Tony.” He signals for the henchmen to return Tony to his cell. “We can discuss this more later.”

Tony really hopes there won’t be a later. Ishmael is sitting on the floor when he returns, guarding a plate of food. He glares at the two goons as he slides the plate over to Tony.  
“Thanks.” It’s shitty food, but Tony really doesn’t want to escape on an empty stomach.  
“You are welcome.” Tony tosses the empty plate at the guards like a frisbee. They catch it and lock the door without much of a reaction. How boring.  
“We need to get out of here,” Tony says as soon as their footsteps disappear down the hall. “Preferably tonight.”  
“Yes.”  
“So what’s the plan?”  
“We sneak out, steal a car, and drive to a city where you can get to safety. After that it is up to you.” The plan is surprisingly simple.  
“So when you said you needed a mechanic…”  
“I need you to steal a car. And to deal with any other technology we encounter.”  
“You’re not a fan of technology?”  
“It all changes so quickly.” That’s a weird complaint to hear from somebody who’s probably half Tony’s age.  
“Sure it does, grandpa.” Ishmael rolls his eyes.  
“Be nice to your дедушка, and lift this up for me, then.” Tony helps Ishmael drag the cot away from the wall to reveal a small stash of tools.  
“Have you been stealing these the whole time?”  
“Only been caught once,” Ishmael nods. “Do you want the knife, or should I take it? Have you ever stabbed somebody?”  
“Uh, no?” Ishmael hands Tony the wire cutters and the wrench. He keeps the pocket knife and the screwdriver.  
“I wasn’t sure what we’d need.”  
“What are you not telling me?” Ishmael pauses, regarding Tony carefully. He sighs, apparently making up his mind.  
“What do you know about Hydra?”

Hydra was a branch of the Nazi party during the Second World War. They were special forces, with a focus on experimental weaponry. Tony remembers the stories about Hydra, about how Captain America and his Howling Commandos fought them at every turn. So what does Hydra have to do with an illegal science experiment in the year 2008?

“I thought Hydra was defeated,” Tony says quietly.  
“They are back,” Ishmael replies, far more certain than he should be.  
“We should probably warn somebody when we get out of here.”  
“Your government could very well be complicit. It had no trouble recruiting Nazi scientists after the war. Why stop there?” Tony doesn’t know what to say to that.  
“How do you know all of this?” he asks instead.  
“Hydra is the reason I am here,” Ishmael does that thing again where he doesn’t really answer the question. “We can discuss this later.”  
“Fine.”

“Follow me, and we should not run into too many guards.” Ishmael moves towards the door, ready to go.  
“What’s your plan for getting past the locked door?”  
“I remember this door being unlocked,” Ishmael says, like that makes it true. He places his palms flat against the door and concentrates. His blue eye lights up as Tony hears the click of the lock.  
“Alright then.” Tony really hates magic.  
“Quickly,” Ishmael urges. “I should not hold this long.” He slips into the hallway after Tony and closes the door after them. His blue eye stops glowing as the lock clicks back into place. He looks a bit drained, but he offers Tony a smile anyway. He gestures, as if to say “follow me” and starts down the hallway.

Ishmael leads the way down the dark passages. His blue eye flickers with each step, and blue light spreads from his feet as they touch the ground. Ishmael follows the light, and Tony follows Ishmael. They wind their way through the halls as quickly and quietly as possible. Red emergency lights cast an eerie crimson hue on everything. Each turn they take seems to bring them further into a labyrinth. Tony can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and even that seems too loud. Every breath that passes his lips slices through the air a thousand times sharper than it should. He hasn’t felt like this in, well, a long time.

Tony stifles a yelp as Ishmael suddenly drags him down a side passage. Ishmael points to the start of a ladder.  
“That is our way out,” he whispers.  
“Why is there no guard?”  
“It is an emergency exit, rigged with an alarm. Can you disable it?”  
“Yup,” Tony answers without thinking. Like an idiot. This is a secure bunker; there’s no way it could be that easy. Ishmael hands Tony the screwdriver and points up. His lips twitch into a bland sort of smile. He’s distracted. Of course he is, Tony chides himself. There’s a million ways this could go wrong.

Tony climbs the ladder up to the emergency hatch. He can see where the release is wired to the alarm system. It’s not quite as simple as “cut the red wire” but it’s pretty close. He unscrews the plastic cover from the alarm to take a better look at it. The cover slips from his grasp, and for a brief, horrible moment time stands still. Then Ishmael catches it and Tony exhales in relief.  
That relief is short-lived as footsteps echo down the hall. Ishmael scrambles up the ladder behind Tony as the footsteps draw nearer. He hangs off the side of the ladder and keeps climbing until their faces are nearly touching.  
“Do not rush,” he breathes in Tony’s ear. “I will handle it.” Tony resumes fiddling with the alarm system, albeit much more quietly. Ishmael watches the hallway, and Tony watches Ishmael. One of the guards walks into view, talking on his radio.  
“I’m telling you, there’s nothing here,” he says. “It’s probably just rats or something.”  
“Humor me,” comes the reply. The guard half-heartedly shines his light partway up the ladder. Tony and Ishmael are just out of sight.  
“All clear,” the guard says.  
“Alright. Resume your usual patrol.”  
“Copy.”

The guard doesn’t leave. Something makes him pause. Maybe it’s a breath too loud. Maybe it’s the creak of the ladder. He looks up. In that instant, Tony can see his doom, as clearly as missile bearing his own name. Before the guard can raise his radio up to make the call, Ishmael launches himself downward off the ladder. He lands on the guard, stolen knife in hand. He stabs the man in the throat. No hesitation, no mercy.   
“Hydra scum,” he hisses, daring to break the silence. Ishmael glances back up at Tony. “Now would be the time to hurry,” he says softly. His voice seems thunderous in the small space. Tony finishes rewiring the alarm system.  
“This is either going to set us free or alert everyone,” he says. Ishmael nods. Tony pulls the lever. The hatch pops open silently.

Tony wastes no time crawling out the hatch. He can hear Ishmael scrambling up behind him. The first thing that hits him is the feeling of fresh air. It’s one of those things he doesn’t know he’s missing until he gets it back. It’s like stepping off an airplane after a long flight. The hatch clicks shut behind him and Ishmael appears beside him. The younger man’s gaze immediately turns upward, towards the evening sky. Then he looks out across the wide expanse of desert. Ishmael is silent for a long time. Finally, he utters a long stream of what Tony imagines are probably swears, though he does catch the word “Siberia” somewhere in the mix. He takes Ishmael by the shoulder and spins him around to face the sunset.  
“We’re going that way,” he says, “Until we hit the ocean.”  
“You are sure?” Ishmael asks.  
“Go west, young man,” Tony grins. Ishmael doesn’t seem to get the reference, but he does seem to appreciate the sentiment. He holds up a set of keys that may or may not be blood stained.  
“Let’s go steal a car.”

There are three guards posted by the actual entrance to the bunker. It’s a small building above ground, disguised as a service station. How no one has spotted them yet is a miracle. Ishmael presses something into Tony’s hands and without looking he knows it’s a gun. It’s one he knows intimately – after all, he designed it.  
“Will you shoot?” Ishmael asks.  
“I know how-“  
“That’s not what I’m asking. Will you shoot?” Ishmael doesn’t make mistakes with his words.  
“… Yes.”

Howard taught Tony how to shoot as soon as he was old enough. No son of his was going to be soft, he had insisted over Maria’s objections. Tony takes aim at the first guard as Ishmael rushes the second. He pulls the trigger. Tony Stark makes weapons as easily as he breathes. He doesn’t miss. He moves towards the cars to use them as cover as the third guard draws his weapon. This isn’t Afghanistan. He can see his targets. He’s sober. Ready, aim, fire. Breathe. Two guards down.  
Ishmael grapples with the second guard. He manages to wrest the gun away from the guard and toss it out of reach, though he loses his knife in the process. He snarls, raising his hand to strike. Green light spreads down his arm like it did when he accidentally attacked Tony. He hits the guard across the face and the man finally drops dead.

“That wasn't so bad,” Ishmael remarks.  
“You're bleeding,” Tony points out. Ishmael glances down at his abdomen, which currently has a knife sticking out of it. So that’s where that went.  
“Oh.” Ishmael stumbles as he takes a step forward. Tony catches him just in time. Ishmael’s lips twitch into a faint grin. He holds up the car keys again. He shakes them in Tony’s face until Tony snatches them from his hand. He clicks the unlock button and one of the SUVs beeps in response.  
“I'll drive,” he says, unnecessarily. Ishmael hums in agreement. He pries the gun from Tony’s other hand and shoots out the tires on the other cars.  
“I was a spy once,” he says casually as Tony loads him into the passenger seat. He waits for Tony to climb into the driver’s seat before he pulls the knife out and heals himself. Tony has a million questions. It seems that using magic takes a physical toll on Ishmael, though. So he swallows his questions and jams on the gas.


	5. Galileo

They race towards the setting sun, like if they just drive fast enough, they’ll be able to catch it. Ishmael leans back and closes his eyes, basking in the dying glow. Tony chases the horizon. This isn’t like Afghanistan, wandering aimless through featureless sand. He has a direction, has a purpose. He glances at his passenger. It's his turn to be the old man, the quest giver. Is this enough to thank Yinsen? No, nothing will ever be enough. Not until every Stark weapon is destroyed.   
As night falls, Tony slows down just a little bit to look up at the stars. You don’t get that kind of view in a cave. Or a bunker. One day his suits will take him there, farther than anyone.  
“The final frontier,” he says quietly to himself.  
“Hmm?” Ishmael stirs, one eye opening to peer at him.  
“Space. The final frontier.”  
“For you,” Ishmael replies cryptically.  
“What do you suppose space is like, all those stars out there?”  
“Cold. Lonely.” They lapse into another silence, lost in wildly veering thoughts. Time passes. So does the desert.

“I remember what it was like,” Ishmael says suddenly, his soft voice cutting across the hum of the engine.   
“What what was like?” Tony asks. He chances a glance at the younger man curled up in the passenger seat. He looks pale and drawn as the changing moonlight and shadows dance across his face.  
“Being reborn.” He itches at his scar, fingers twitching as if he wants to tear it open. “The first time,” he adds, like he has to clarify. For all Tony knows, maybe he does. “I was awake the whole time he cut me open.” Tony suspects Ishmael is referring to the golden-eyed adversary that haunts his dreams. “He wanted to see what I was made of.”   
Tony is only half paying attention, his focus on the road. He doesn’t know what Ishmael is getting at, but he knows it’s important.   
Ishmael produces a projection of a heart out of the same blue light that had appeared when he dove into Tony’s mind. That shouldn’t be possible without a hologram setup. He hands it to Tony, like that’s a normal thing to do. Tony is surprised to find that the projection has weight.   
“Uh, thanks.” Good job, idiot. Way to ruin this poetic moment.  
“You and I are made of better things,” Ishmael says. “We got the chance to rebuild.” Tony passes the heart back to Ishmael, half wondering if this is some kind of test. Maybe Stane killed him back in Malibu, and everything since has been some kind of terrible afterlife.  
“I didn’t choose to rebuild,” Tony taps the arc reactor.  
“Neither did I,” Ishmael replies, crushing the projection into nothing with a surprising amount of resentment. “But here we are.”  
“Am I dead?”  
“No.”

A loud ding causes both men to flinch. The gas light clicks on. Tony glances at the fuel gauge and groans.  
“How far can we go?” Ishmael asks, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.  
“No idea, but I’m gonna take us as far as possible,” Tony replies. “If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to a gas station.” He hasn’t taken his foot off the gas, not since they left the bunker. Thanks to the built-in GPS, Tony can see that there’s exactly fuck-all in the way of civilization. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a no-name town that the interstate forgot waiting out there to save them.

After another long stretch of silence, Ishmael insists on driving. It’s a testament to how tired Tony is that he doesn’t protest. They just stop the car and switch seats. Ishmael matches Tony’s do or die speed, wasting no time in revving up the engine and continuing their journey west with barely a pause. Tony is exhausted, but he’s still too keyed up to sleep. He pretends anyway, hoping to catch at least some rest. Ishmael starts humming, and it’s an old tune Tony remembers. It reminds him of home - not Malibu, but New York, and a mansion filled with ghosts.  
Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Ishmael starts to speak. It’s not a language Tony recognizes, not even from the languages he heard in Afghanistan. There’s a rhythm to the words Ishmael speaks, and if magic had a sound that might be it. It sounds like praying. Maria prayed constantly, like the good Catholic woman that she was. Howard only did when he thought no one was around. Tony never mastered Hebrew well enough to understand what was important enough to make a man like Howard turn to God, and he never dared to ask. As Tony drifts further into sleep, he swears he hears Ishmael call out, as clearly as if he had spoken English: Mama, I don’t want to die here.


End file.
